Mechanic
To my father who could fix any engine
No one knew better than you
the sound of an out of tune
engine—slightly sharp for insufficient
friction—the low stuttering rise and fall
of pistons—how much speed three
working cylinders could render
when the accelerator was lead-footed
to the vinyl floor mat.
No one in any of our family’s generations
had ever purchased a vehicle brand new
ours were rebuilt from the junkyard’s collection
of treasures—side mirrors unshattered and
carburetors from a graveyard of cars abandoned
you haggling down the asking price
of unshattered mirrors and shiny chrome pieces
In one graceful push you would slide
under—the sharp blades of your shoulders
cushioned on a stack of flattened
cardboard—I spent hours holding the light
at just the right angle—scrambling
to find the wrench or phillips or flathead
never fast enough for your schedule—
still I could hold the dishpan to your
satisfaction— stare as gritty oil dripped
then congealed later I’d find
a beautiful figure left in the puddle’s
prism—like reading the tea leaves looking
for hearts and stars in our rented future.
Echoes, Heirlooms and Ruptures
Youngest sister is placed beside
our father keeping her solitary
bedside vigil. For decades he held
our family power—the force of his mania
mercurial and with a hurricane’s scale
of damage—though his episodes
were never named—never given a gender.
Now he is captured in a mechanical
bed--rails locked in a contained position.
Right after high school he enlisted
Semper Fidelis—after his service
he was never without ammunition.
His last wishes—no memorial--no
celebration of life—no tombstone
no burial—a cremation with
the cheapest container—his rifles
and vintage pistols were to be divided
between his grandsons—cases, trigger
locks and oil against rust all clearly
labeled—his granddaughters received
no lock stock or barrels.
Oldest sister holds power of
attorney—she puts his brick
duplex on the market—opens each
closet, crawl space and attic rafter
to reveal the hoarded thoughts and
genetic skeletons. She files his
back taxes and death certificate
virtually—he dies of atrial fibrillation
and dementia that prevented
solid food swallowing. The way
to his heart was through his sweet
tooth—bake him a spice cake
studded with walnuts and raisins
soaked in bourbon.
I hold middle sister position—ambivalent and vegan
a registered nurse with no status
my clinical experience involved caring
for gun-shot victims—I lobby for tighter
control and parameters for rounds fired
but I feel like I’m down here while guns
above are shooting fish in a barrel.
My sisters and I under the manic
spell of our dad.
I feared my father—his accuracy
at hitting the target and the noise
of his chainsaws—the weight of mature
trees crashing. Still I don’t blame
him for bad dreams, bloody noses and the aura
of migraines. I won’t get analyzed or consult
a palm reader. I feared my father.
My nose is pronounced and crooked—a dominant
trait from the paternal branch of our family tree
not hardwood like oak—not invasive
like buckthorn but some cross between
weeping willow and trembling aspen.
When my sister calls with the time of his death
I can’t cry—I hold.
a bittersweet flavor with the metallic taste
in the back of my throat—like blood.
Jenna Rindo lives with her husband on five acres in rural Wisconsin where they raised their five children. Her poems have been published in Shenandoah, AJN, Natural Bridge, Rhino, Verse Virtual, One Magazine and others. In 2022 she won the Lorine Niedecker prize for a group of 5 published poems. For years she worked in hospitals as a pediatric RN and now works with refugee students. She is a runner and biker and competes in 5K races to full marathons.